‘Does that bother you?’
‘I’d rather you answered my questions.’
He puts the notebook away.
‘I first met Maggie Brown at the Rathlin Ward in Belfast, a twenty-four-bed acute facility for people with serious mental health issues. Maggie was nineteen when she was first admitted; and had three subsequent stays over the next eight years.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘I can’t discuss the specifics of her case.’
‘What can you tell me?’
‘Eighteen months ago, Maggie left the clinic unexpectedly. We were close to making a breakthrough, but sometimes that’s when a patient is most vulnerable because they’re more exposed. She signed herself out of the hospital and left Belfast. We know she caught a ferry across the Irish Sea to Liverpool and a train to London. After that we lost her.’
‘Were the police involved?’
‘No. But her parents hired a private detective, with only limited success. Until you called, Elsa had begun to worry that she might never find Maggie. Or worse, that her daughter might be dead.’
‘Why are you so keen to get her back?’
Coyle has been folding and unfolding his serviette. ‘You call her Tempe, correct?’
I nod.
‘Has Tempe ever mentioned Mallory Hopper?’
‘They were friends.’
‘For a while, yes. Mallory’s mother called their relationship a “friendship for the ages” but it didn’t last longer than a year. In that time, Tempe became the most important person in Mallory’s life. She protected her. She cocooned her. But eventually Mallory grew tired of Tempe’s attentions, because they were so all-consuming. Tempe didn’t make friends, she owned them. She took them hostage.’
Coyle is watching me as he speaks, reading my reactions.
‘Tempe could sense Mallory losing interest in her. The light didn’t go out, it simply dimmed, and she grew jealous. She felt as though she had given Mallory confidence; had made her brighter and shinier, until others began to notice her and compete for her attention.
‘A Facebook page appeared with some nasty things about Mallory. Tempe helped get it taken down. Mallory was appreciative. And when someone broke into her school locker and scrawled horrible lies about her brothers, Tempe cleaned up the graffiti before Mallory saw the worst of it.’
Our meals have arrived. Coyle has chosen the full English breakfast. My fruit toast looks paltry in comparison. He pauses and cuts up his sausage and bacon and grilled tomato, working right to left across the plate before turning it forty-five degrees and repeating the process. He then dots the meal with brown sauce and eats with a fork in his right hand.
‘One day, Mallory was left alone in Tempe’s room. She found the sketches – hundreds of them, mostly drawn from memory, but some from life. The ones of her sleeping bothered Mallory the most. The idea that Tempe had been awake during those hours, sitting beside her bed.’
As he utters these words, I feel as though someone has run a cube of ice down my spine, slowly rolling it over each vertebra.
‘Mallory accused Tempe of trying to steal her soul, like she was some native tribeswoman frightened that a tourist’s camera might capture more than a likeness. Tempe tried to defend herself. She did it out of love. She didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Mrs Hopper called the police.
‘For the rest of that summer, Tempe watched Mallory from a distance, following her to and from her part-time job at a supermarket. She would also hide in shrubs on a railway siding, where she had a view of Mallory’s bedroom, or she rode her bike up and down the road outside her house.
‘In September they both went to university in Belfast but Mallory changed courses after the first semester, because Tempe kept showing up at her lectures and tutorials. Mallory moved out of home, but Tempe found her and broke into her shared house one night, leaving a drawing on her pillow. Other sketches were posted around the university. Some had the eyes missing, or the ears, or the nose. Mallory left the college before the end of her first year and went into hiding.’
Coyle has been eating and talking between mouthfuls of food, dabbing egg yolk from the corners of his lips with a folded serviette.
‘Tempe suffers from something known as White Knight Syndrome. She bases her self-worth on her ability to fix other people’s problems, which is why she became fixated on Mallory Hopper. This compulsive need to be the rescuer in an intimate relationship is often used to avoid the rescuer’s own problems. By prescribing them to others, Tempe is trying to save herself through a proxy.
‘This syndrome usually originates from early life experiences that have left the white knight feeling damaged or guilty. They often have a history of loss or abandonment. Tempe is emotionally sensitive and empathetic, which means, she’s very good at putting herself into another person’s shoes. It also means she can use this ability to control and to hurt them.’
‘You said she was sectioned.’
‘She was arrested for setting fire to Mallory Hopper’s house.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘The family escaped. Tempe denied it at first, but the police had CCTV footage of her filling a plastic container at a petrol station; and traces of accelerant were found on her clothing. Tempe spent the next two years at the Rathlin Ward. She suffered psychotic episodes, but these were brought under control by medication. Since then, her admissions have been voluntary.’
‘Why did she run away?’
‘Mallory Hopper took her own life eighteen months ago. She jumped off a road bridge onto Belfast's Westlink.’
My breath catches in my throat. ‘Surely, you can’t blame Tempe for that.’
‘Mallory left a suicide note that set out what had happened to her. Even when Tempe was at Rathlin, she was still finding ways to send messages to Mallory; to smuggle out drawings and notes, saying they’d be together one day.’
I pause, considering the story, and comparing it to my own situation. Tempe didn’t save me from sadness, but something drew her to me and now she refuses to let go.
‘What happens now?’ I ask.
‘Hopefully, you’ll take me to her.’
43
I ring the intercom. Tempe answers.
‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘Can we talk?’
The automatic lock releases and I glance up the stairs, expecting to see Tempe waiting on the landing. We climb. Knock. The door opens with a flourish. Tempe’s smile evaporates when she sees Coyle standing behind me.
‘Hello, Maggie,’ he says.
I expect to see surprise or anger. Instead I see fear. She steps back, shaking her head.
‘No. No. I’m not going. You can’t make me.’
‘Can I come in?’ he asks gently.
‘How did you find me?’
Her gaze turns to me and she doesn’t need an answer.
We are all in the sitting room, which has suddenly become very small, and Tempe looks ready to tear down the walls to escape.
‘I only want to talk,’ says Coyle. He turns to me. ‘You can leave us now.’
‘Please don’t go,’ says Tempe. ‘Protect me.’
Coyle looks aggrieved. ‘You can’t keep making up stories, Maggie.’